


changing flights so you'd stay with me

by bellawritess



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Airports, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, He is a Lawyer, M/M, Meet-Cute, because you know. this entire fic is for sam, halsey cameo for sam, i did. so much. research. about LAX. for this fic., paul higgins cameo also, well. calum is anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26464225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: “No shit,” Luke says. “A famous guy bought your coffee?”Calum flips the magazine open as best he can with one hand. It opens to one of those tear-out-page posters, and there’s Michael, captured in the middle of playing his guitar onstage, red lights bleeding out behind him and mouth open in front of a microphone in a stand, as if he’s frozen in place, mid-song. He looks good playing guitar, comfortable onstage.“A hot famous guy, no less,” Calum says.-Or: five times Calum saw Michael in an airport, and the one time Michael saw Calum.
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92





	changing flights so you'd stay with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellingatbabylon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon/gifts).



> [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellingatbabylon)!! sam sam sam!!! happy birthday, love and light of my life. this fic is for you, and before you ask, no, i was not expecting it to be this long when i started. i asked what you liked, and you said malum, airports, domestic fluff, and meet-cutes, so i said "no problemo!" and now this. BUT it is no more than you deserve!!!!! you are a wonderful, wonderful person, a delightful presence in the club and on 5sos tumblr, and generally a positive force in my, and everyone's, life, i love you endlessly and am so happy to know you, and i hope that this fic does justice to your favorite tropes. if anyone reading this DOESN'T know sam, please remedy that. she is a treasure of a human being.
> 
> title is from lie to me by 5sos. yes i am sorry about that but no i will not change it even if they do have a song called airplanes that would probably be more appropriate <3

  1. **August**



Calum spends a lot of time on aeroplanes, but more, probably, just wasting away in airports.

They say that you sleep for a third of your life. Calum is pretty confident he’s going to have spent another third of his life in one terminal or another, at the exact same airport, drinking the exact same coffee from the exact same Dunkin Donuts, and all he’ll have is thirty-three measly years to accomplish everything else he wants to do. Which really isn’t that many, considering he’s already used up twenty-four of them. What can anyone accomplish in nine years? Not a lot. _And_ that’s assuming that Calum is going to live a grand total of ninety-nine years, which is highly unrealistic. The average lifespan for human beings these days is really closer to seventy-five years, which actually means that Calum’s life is going to end in one year. _One year._

Point being, there is nowhere Calum wants to be less right now than another fucking airport, and yet here he is.

It’s just that his fucking job slingshots him across the country, sometimes overseas, only ever for a week, two weeks at most, before pulling him back to home base like one of those sticky hands you launch at the wall only to yank it back to yourself. Rinse, repeat. It’s an exhausting job, and Calum hardly has time to be vaguely grateful, in that magnanimous way, that he’s getting to _see other parts of the country_ or _travel more in three years than most people do in a lifetime._ _Sure,_ he’d say, if anyone ever cared to ask how Calum felt about it. _Lucky me. You try living with permanent jet lag._

But it’s whatever. It doesn’t matter. There’s, like, two hours until Calum’s flight to D.C., and Calum intends to spend the better part of those two hours _not_ thinking about how much he doesn’t want to be in this airport.

Coffee would be good. Coffee would make this more bearable.

Normally, Calum would opt for Dunkin, because it’s much cheaper, but fuck it. It’s been a long week. He shoulders his work bag and goes in search of the Starbucks. Pretends to wander for a little while, as if he doesn’t know exactly where it is. There’s a very precise mental map of this airport in Calum’s mind, but he likes to play a game with himself where that map doesn’t exist, because the fact that it _does_ exist is just incredibly sad, like maybe the lamest thing in the world, and Calum likes to put on this really interesting mask of a person for himself and pretend he’s not lame.

He _is_ lame, but it’s fun to lie for a little bit.

Eventually, though, he concedes to the fact that he knows where the Starbucks is, and hangs a left to reach it. There’s no line, and glancing into the café Calum can only see one other person, tucked away in a corner with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, reading something that looks like a magazine. Okay. Lucky day, then. Deserted Starbucks. Always better than a busy Starbucks, for sure.

He steps up to the register, and the woman behind smiles at him. “Hi, what can I get you?”

“Hi,” Calum says. “How are you?”

The woman blinks. “Oh, you know,” she says, obviously surprised that Calum’s asked. “Just chugging along.”

“Amen,” Calum says good-naturedly. “Could I get a grande iced caramel macchiato?”

“No problem,” the woman says. Her name tag says _Rosalie_ , but she doesn’t look like a Rosalie, in Calum’s opinion. “Will that be all?” 

“That’s all,” Calum confirms, and at Rosalie’s behest (she really looks more like a Brittany), he swipes his card on the machine.

_Card declined._

“Sorry,” Rosalie says, “would you mind swiping it again?”

Calum swipes his card again. _Card declined._

_What the fuck,_ he thinks furiously, staring at the Capital One like it’s just betrayed him, which it kind of has. Rosalie, behind the register, frowns. 

“Do you have another card you could try?” she offers. Calum bites his lip. He might, maybe, but this card has worked _fine_ for so long there’s no reason it shouldn’t be working _now_ , and — 

“I’ve got it,” someone says, and Calum turns to see the guy with the baseball cap from before. “Here. Let me.” And he reaches over Calum to swipe a card through the machine before Calum can even pretend to level some kind of defense. 

“You don’t have to,” he says anyway, weakly, but the transaction is already going through. Rosalie smiles at both of them, and baseball cap guy turns to Calum, smiling around a five o’clock shadow, under green green green eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he says easily. “Honestly.”

Calum bites his lip. He’s not going to _refuse_ a drink from an attractive stranger, is he? Of course not. “Well,” he says, “you might as well join me while I drink it.”

The guy glances around himself, head still tilted partially down like he’s hiding. “Sure,” he says. “Okay.”

It’s possible that Calum has not been giving airports enough credit.

* * *

“I’m Calum,” Calum figures it relevant to say, once he’s retrieved his drink and taken the seat opposite baseball cap guy in the corner. “Uh, thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the guy says. “That used to happen to me a lot.”

“For the record, I do have the money,” Calum says. He feels embarrassed, that this guy probably thinks Calum is broke, or something. “I don’t know why my card didn’t work. That’s the first time that’s happened in, like, ever.”

“Yeah, no, it’s okay,” the guy says. “I get it. You probably maxed it.”

“I don’t —” Whatever. This isn’t worth trying to puzzle out right now. “Well, in any case, I appreciate you stepping in.”

The guy in the baseball cap smiles. “Uh, I’m Michael,” he adds, in a charmingly awkward way. 

“Nice to meet you,” Calum says. “Where are you headed?”

“London,” Michael says. “Work stuff.” He smiles a bit, and Calum smiles back.

“Ah, work stuff,” he says. “How long are you there?”

“A week, I think,” says Michael. “Although knowing the people I work with, it’ll probably end up being longer.” He laughs to himself. “What about you? Where are you going?”

“D.C.,” Calum says, resisting the urge to add, _unfortunately._ “Also work. I’ll swap you, though. London weather is much nicer.”

“What? Than _D.C._ ? Have you ever even _been_ to London?”

“It’s fuckin’ August, man,” Calum says. “Summers in D.C. are horrible.”

“Okay, but at least there’s aircon. You want to sweat yourself to death in England, really?”

“Well at least it _rains._ ” 

“Even the rain is sweaty!”

“Oh, come on. That’s disgusting. I don’t need that mental image.”

“You started it. I’d swap _you_ in a heartbeat. You’re welcome to go to London in my place.”

“No problem,” Calum says, grinning. “What kind of work do you do? So I can be prepared.”

Michael stops short. “Uh,” he says. “Kind of music-related things.”

“Oh, no shit!” Of course he does. Of course this super hot benevolent stranger is involved in music. Calum’s going to press charges against the universe for cruel and unusual punishment. “That’s dope. What kind of things?”

“Oh, you know,” Michael says, entirely avoiding the question. “What about you? What’s in D.C.?”

“Law firm,” Calum sighs. “Don’t get excited, it’s not interesting. But if you really want to trade places, I won’t complain.”

“Ah, changed my mind,” Michael says. “That sounds boring as fuck. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, it is,” Calum says, shaking his head. He takes another sip of his drink, and Michael does too. “So what time is your flight?”

“Great question,” Michael says lightly, and pulls out his phone. Calum pretends he’s not staring at the tattoos on Michael’s fingers, the bands around the middle finger of his left hand and the X on the knuckle of his right. He wonders what they mean, if they mean anything, if it’s appropriate to ask. Just as Calum opens his mouth with a question, though, Michael cuts in. “Oh, fuck me. Fuck, I have to go, like, right now. Shit. I’m so sorry, Calum, I thought —”

“It’s all good,” Calum says, smiling. “Thanks for the coffee, man. Good luck with your London weather and your music people and everything.”

Michael nods, looking frazzled, and says, “Yeah, same to you. Enjoy your D.C. humidity.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

Michael laughs at that, and then he’s out the door, pulling the baseball cap still lower on his head.

  1. **September**



Calum’s going to sue LAX.

It’s not their _fault_ , precisely, that his headphones have just broken, but it happened on their turf, so that’s basically the same. And there’s absolutely no way in hell Calum is spending the hour before boarding sitting at a gate by himself _without music_. That’s the eighth circle of hell, probably.

Unfortunately, that means he has to go and acquire new earbuds, the really trashy, break-if-you-coil-them-wrong airport ones. For fuck’s sake.

On his jaunt to the nearest Hudson News, Calum’s phone goes off. He fishes it out of his pocket and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Calum.” It’s Luke. “Uh, good news and bad news.” 

“Just what I like to hear,” Calum says dryly, wandering into a store. He goes straight for the rack of electronics on the wall and starts examining each brand.

“Well, the good news is we get to reschedule the meeting tonight,” Luke says. “The bad news is it’s because my flight’s delayed four hours.” 

“How is that bad news?” Calum says. “Not having to see your face for an extra four hours sounds like more good news to me.”

“Fuck you,” Luke says. “I shouldn’t have even told you.”

“No, I’m glad you did,” Calum says, grinning as he pulls a pair of Skullcandy earbuds off the rack. May as well invest a little bit in a backup pair while he’s already here. “Seriously, Luke, that’s shit. So you’re stuck in Atlanta?”

“Yup,” Luke says tiredly. “Hooray.”

“I’ll send you cat pictures,” Calum offers sympathetically. 

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“Just this,” Calum tells the kid behind the cash register, tossing the earbuds onto the counter. He scans the shelves of candy and magazines while the guy rings him up. To Luke, he says, “Do you wanna call Alex and reschedule or should I?”

“Would you?” Luke asks, but Calum’s eyes catch on the cover of one of the teen magazines, and he stops hearing Luke.

“Uh,” he says, picking up the magazine as the guy behind the register says, “That’ll be $12.93,” and Luke goes, “Calum?” and Calum keeps staring, because the person on the cover of this fucking teen gossip magazine is _Michael._ Baseball cap guy. Benevolent coverer-of-maxed-credit-cards Michael, with the insanely green eyes. 

And he’s smirking out of the cover of a J-14, _Michael Clifford_ curving over his head, staring straight at Calum as if to say, _recognize me?_

“Right,” Calum says to the guy at the register. “Sorry. Uh, this too.” He holds out the magazine.

“Calum,” Luke repeats.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Calum says to Luke. “Just having a small crisis here. Have you heard of someone called Michael Clifford?”

“Uh,” Luke says. “Maybe? Sounds vaguely familiar?”

Calum swipes his credit card when the machine prompts him, this time before the register guy can say anything. “Thanks,” he says to the kid, taking his earbuds and magazine and leaving. To Luke, he says, “Well, apparently he’s some bigshot pop star. Or, uh, pop rock…something or other.”

“Okay,” Luke says, like he has no idea where this is going. “Good for him? Are you calling Alex or not?”

“Luke,” Calum says. “It’s the guy who bought my coffee. Last month at Starbucks, when my card was declined, remember I told you about that? The hot guy who covered my coffee? That was _this guy._ ”

“No shit,” Luke says. “A famous guy bought your coffee?”

Calum flips the magazine open as best he can with one hand. It opens to one of those tear-out-page posters, and there’s Michael, captured in the middle of playing his guitar onstage, red lights bleeding out behind him and mouth open in front of a microphone in a stand, as if he’s frozen in place, mid-song. He looks good playing guitar, comfortable onstage.

“A hot famous guy, no less,” Calum says.

He wonders what had compelled Michael to potentially blow his cover just to pay for Calum’s coffee. And if he’d been surprised that Calum hadn’t recognized him. Maybe he doesn’t expect blokes in their 20s to know his face. Fair enough, Calum supposes; after all, he _hadn't_.

“Well done,” Luke says. “Impressive pull, I have to admit.”

Calum snorts. “Yeah, well done, me. Swindled some teen pop star guy into paying for my five-dollar drink. Master of seduction, I am.” 

“Well, it’s a cool story,” Luke says. “I bet Ashton’s sister knows him.” 

“She’d never believe me.”

“Well, it’s not like she can prove you wrong.”

“Yeah, but it's not like I can prove myself right.”

“DM him on Instagram,” Luke suggests mischievously.

“Great idea,” Calum deadpans. “ _Hey, Michael, remember me? That random guy whose coffee you bought a month ago at LAX? Yeah, so I thought you were hot then, too, but I’m only DMing you now, after I’ve conveniently learned that you’re famous. On the off-chance you’re ever in L.A. at the same time as me again, you wanna get a coffee?_ ”

“Sounds good to me,” Luke says. 

Calum rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna call Alex now,” he says. “Have fun waiting for your flight.”

“Oh, I will,” Luke says. “Don’t forget to send cat pictures. They’ll be instrumental to my enjoyment.”

“Yeah, okay,” Calum says, although he will not be doing that. Maybe he’ll send a picture of Grumpy Cat, or something, just to fuck with Luke. He hits the red button to end the call and pockets his phone, and then loiters for another few minutes, staring at the photograph in the magazine until it becomes too creepy to continue. As he makes his way back to the gate he throws the magazine in the nearest recycling bin, but it’s too late. The picture is etched into his mind.

  
  


  1. **October**



Calum is beginning to suspect that Ashton is repeatedly excusing himself from the gate for various reasons just to try and call Luke, which is fruitless; if Luke is still in flight he won’t receive the call, and also it’s not like Calum doesn’t know Ashton’s doing it, so there’s really no point trying to pretend. But because Calum is a nice, wonderful, respectful friend (who has recently put clingfilm over all of Ashton’s desk drawers), he allows Ashton to steal away to the “bathroom” in quiet dignity for the third time.

It’s not like it’s particularly interesting, with or without Ashton there. They’d been working on a logic puzzle together but then they’d finished it, and now they’ve been sitting in relative silence for at least ten minutes. During which Ashton had checked his phone about six million times.

“Would you relax?” Calum finally says.

Ashton fidgets. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he says transparently. Calum rolls his eyes.

“Don’t fall in,” he says, as Ashton stands up. This earns him the middle finger, and he flips it in return at Ashton’s back as he walks away.

It’s been a good while just sitting and waiting. Calum doesn’t mind too much, but his foot is falling asleep and he’s starting to feel stiff. Ashton’s already disappeared again. This is as good a time as any to take a walk. He’s not in the least bit concerned about missing Luke. The moment Luke is connected to the internet again, Ashton will know, and by extension, so will Calum.

He wanders down the terminal, lingering where the food smells particularly good before powering past it. There’s not a lot to see here, but beyond this stretch of restaurants and shops is another block of gates, and that’s even less interesting. Calum gets about halfway down before he turns. The feeling has returned to his legs, which means he should probably head back.

Just as he’s about to go, an oddly familiar baseball cap catches Calum’s eye, and as he peers closer at it approaching him, he clocks the blonde fringe peeking out from underneath it. Startled, he says, “Michael?”

The head bearing the cap lifts up and Calum locks eyes with someone who is undeniably Michael Clifford.

“Oh,” Michael says, staring. “It’s you. Calum.” His face splits into a bashful grin. “Wow, hey. Stroke of luck.”

“You remember me?” Calum says, too taken aback to say anything else.

“Of course I remember,” Michael says, and then blushes, as if he’s revealed too much. Maybe he has, but Calum’s head is too crowded with questions to figure out if that’s an answer to any of them. “You, uh, remember me, right? ‘Cause this is gonna be awkward as hell if you don’t.”

“I’m the one who just stopped you,” Calum says. “Yeah, of course I remember. The coffee. Yeah.”

“I’m actually really glad I ran into you,” Michael says, turning pinker, if possible. “I really wished I hadn’t had to run off before. Like, you seemed really cool and normal. Oh, that’s weird. Not in like — not in a mean way.”

“I got it,” Calum says, smiling, raising his eyebrows. “Were you going to mention your career in pop music?”

Michael blinks and ducks his head. “Uh, eventually it would have come up, I think.”

“It did come up,” Calum says agreeably. “On the cover of a J-14 magazine. Imagine my surprise.” He chuckles, hopefully to convey that he’s joking, and Michael seems to get it.

“To be fair,” he says defensively, “we only talked for, like, five minutes.”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Calum says. Michael tilts his head. Feeling reckless, Calum adds, “Are you rushing out now, too, or do you have a few minutes?”

“Hey, hold on,” Michael complains. “I was going to ask for your number. You just totally stole my thunder.”

Calum’s heart thump-thumps. “Were you really?”

“Well, yeah?” Michael shrugs. “Um, partially because I — I kind of am rushing out now. Sorry,” he says, and sounds genuinely apologetic. “Places to go, people to see. Much more interesting than your lawyer stuff, I’m sure.”

“I _knew_ fame would get to your head,” Calum deapans, and then grins. It feels so ridiculously easy to tease Michael, which is insane for someone he’s known for a collective total of about seven minutes. “What are you getting up to?”

“Writing, recording,” Michael says, waving dismissively like it’s no big deal. “You know. Musician things.”

“How very specific,” Calum says dryly. “Do I have to sign an NDA?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “And you’ll need to delete all your social medias. Just to be safe, you know.”

“Of course.”

Michael glances around himself and tugs the baseball cap further over his face. He looks unfairly charming in a baseball cap, and the glasses aren’t too sore on the eyes either. “Anyway,” Michael says, shaking his head, “your number? Do you — is that cool?”

“Okay,” Calum says, as if he’s going to refuse to give his number to a charmingly witty, almost criminally adorable pop star who randomly buys strangers coffee. If nothing else, Mali-Koa would probably eviscerate him. “You’ll actually call, right? I’m not giving it to you if you’re just going to forget.”

“I’ll actually call,” Michael says, looking very pleased as he pulls out his phone. When he hands it to Calum, it’s open to a new contact, and Calum keys in his phone number. _Calum From The Airport_ , he puts as his name. “Where are you off to this time?”

“Nowhere,” Calum says. “Picking up a co-worker.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Well, I’m nice.”

“I believe that,” Michael says, and with a glittering smile he slides past Calum. Someone joins him at his side, a gentleman dressed in black that had kind of escaped Calum’s view, and Calum realizes he’s _security_. Security for Michael Clifford. The pop star. Right. “Well, I’ll hopefully see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah — yeah,” says Calum, and grins as Michael lifts a hand to wave. “See you.”

As soon as Michael’s disappeared into the steady stream of people, Calum’s phone starts buzzing. He checks the call, figuring it’ll be Ashton wondering where he’s gone, but it’s an unknown number. 

“Hello?”

“I said I’d call,” says Michael from the other end. He sounds like he’s smiling. “So I’m calling.”

“This is so obviously not what I meant,” Calum says, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning despite himself. 

“I’m a man of my word,” Michael insists. “Anyway. I’ve gotta go for real. Talk later, bye!”

He hangs up, and Calum laughs to himself all the way back to Luke’s gate.

  1. **November**



Calum checks and double-checks, but Michael’s most recent text definitely says _terminal 8 gate 81_ , and Calum is there, and Michael isn’t. 

It’s not like Calum is obsessing. He’s a little bit early, anyway, and he knows that flights can be finicky. Still, there’s a small, _extraordinarily obnoxious_ voice in his ear, nasally inquiring _are you sure he didn’t just give you the wrong gate on purpose? Wrong terminal, maybe? Are you sure he’s not just totally fucking with you? Are you sure he even wants to see you? How sure are you, Calum?_

Sometimes it’s annoying to be in Calum’s head.

He takes a stubborn seat anyway at the gate and pulls out one of the contracts he’s got to work on from his bag. If Michael says he’ll be here, then he’ll be here. Calum would like to believe the Michael he’s slowly befriended wouldn’t stand him up. They’ve gotten to know each other through continuous text conversations and sporadic phone and FaceTime calls — their travel schedules make it almost impossible to actually cross paths, ever, so that’s all they’ve had for the past month. It had been Michael’s idea to meet up, actually, when Calum had mentioned a flight out on the sixteenth.

 _“I’m actually flying into LAX then,”_ he’d said, and his eyes had lit up with an idea. _“Hey, when’s your flight? I wonder if we could meet up for a bit.”_

It had seemed like a pipe dream, grasping at straws, but somehow a plan had come together anyway. A plan involving Calum meeting Michael at his gate.

Which is a great plan, up until Michael doesn’t show.

But Calum’s not panicking. He’s _not,_ because he’s a grown-up who understands that Michael isn’t in control of his own aeroplane. Flight times are, like, the least reliable information _ever_ , and Calum knows that better than anyone. He _knows._

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Twenty. Calum gets through a good chunk of the contract, and then finally gives up and checks his phone again, as if maybe Michael will have texted some time in the last quarter of an hour with an update from the air. Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing.

Finally, half an hour after Calum has sat down, a plane rolls in outside the window. Calum crosses his fingers. It’s not really reasonable to think that that plane could be anything other than Michael’s, unless Michael really _has_ just been playing the long con this whole time, but Calum’s nervous anyway.

He waits patiently in his seat for the additional few minutes it takes for the plane to come to a complete stop, for people to start getting out of their seats and collecting their shit from the overhead compartment and then laboriously working their way to the exit of the plane in a painstaking single-file line. A staggered flow of people begin to come out of the gate, and Calum stays in his seat, watching out of the corner of his eye. Strangers, strangers, more strangers — 

And there’s Michael, wandering out with a backpack slung over one shoulder, masked by a snapback over his face, dressed in a rumpled sweater, sleeves extending over his palms and curling up with his fingers. Calum sees him and then immediately looks away. It’s weird to go to him, right? Calum should let Michael come to him.

For a long moment, Calum stares resolutely at the floor, pretending not to watch everyone’s shoes in his peripheral vision. Finally, just as he’s thinking Michael’s ambled off in a different direction and they’ve missed each other and Calum’s an absolute moron, he hears, “Calum?”

Calum looks up, and Michael is there. He springs to his feet. “Thank God,” he says, grinning to hide the way relief is surely spilling across his features, painting over nerves. “I thought you were standing me up.”

Michael looks thoroughly apologetic. “I’m so fucking sorry, seriously — the plane got delayed on the tarmac for like half an hour, but I didn’t really realize because you know how time is like, weirder on an aeroplane? Anyway by the time I _did_ realize we were already taking off and I couldn’t text you. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — were you waiting a long time?” 

“No, no,” Calum says quickly. “Half an hour at most. Don’t worry about it.” He feels once again immediately endeared by Michael’s awkwardly earnest nature, and wonders how all these teenage girls fancying Michael would feel if they knew he talked like this. 

They’d probably be having heart palpitations, actually.

(Not that Calum’s not.)

“I’d never stand you up,” Michael says, and his tone is joking, eyes twinkling, but Calum gets the distinct impression that he means it seriously. It’s a good feeling. Calum smiles.

“Should we get your shit from baggage claim, or…” 

“Paul can probably get it,” Michael says, and is immediately joined over the shoulder by a man dressed all in black, clearly security. The fact that Michael basically comes with security is something that takes some getting used to, but Calum gives him an amicable smile anyway, and the alleged Paul smiles back. 

“Grab my bags from baggage claim?” Michael asks him, with a cheeky smile. “Please?”

“You’re an adult, you know,” Paul huffs. 

“There could be scary teenage girls there,” Michael says. Calum nods as if this is a real problem that he’s ever experienced. Paul rolls his eyes.

“Just text me where I should meet you,” he says. Michael grins broadly and pats him on the cheek.

“Good man,” he says, and then turns to Calum. “Lunch?”

“Gladly,” Calum says, and hefts his bag over his shoulder, tucking the contract back into the big pocket. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Conveniently, there’s a Panda Express just across from Michael’s gate.

They get their food and sit down across from each other, and Calum starts eating. When he looks up, Michael’s watching him, a smile on his face that looks infinitely better in real life than pixelated on Calum’s phone screen.

“Yes?” Calum demands, smiling himself.

“No, nothing,” Michael says, and stabs at his black pepper chicken. “Nothing. I’m just glad this worked out.”

“Me too,” Calum says. He takes a drink from his water. “So tell me about Chicago.”

“Just promotional stuff,” Michael says, shrugging. “Not a lot of time for sightseeing.”

“Promotion for…”

“Sorry, Cal,” Michael says, eyes twinkling. “Trade secret, can’t say. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That’s such pop star bullshit,” Calum returns. “I need to know what the promo is for, Mike. My Twitter followers are dying to find out.”

“Mhm,” Michael says, rolling his eyes over a grin. “You and your twenty-seven Twitter followers. On your private Twitter account.”

“For all you know I have a second, secret account, where I moonlight as a teenage girl who swoons at the indescribably hot Michael Clifford and his sexy sexy guitar skills,” Calum says, and then wrinkles his nose. “That makes me seem super creepy and gross. I don’t — I don’t do that. That’d be really weird.”

Michael snorts a laugh. “Indescribably hot?”

“That’s probably how they talk about you,” Calum says defensively, flushing red. “I mean, you are.”

Michael blushes. “Come on. Takes one to know one.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys,” Calum says. “I bet you get that a lot.”

“I’ve never gotten _indescribably hot_ ,” Michael says. “And I don’t say it to all the guys. Most guys don’t say it to me either, I promise you.”

“Well,” Calum says, “that’s because they’re fucking blind, I think.”

Michael grins indulgently. “Stop it. Let’s talk about something else. Where are you heading?”

“D.C.,” Calum says. “Again. Perpetually, I think. The main office for my firm is in D.C., so I have to go every few months for, like, the firm-wide meeting.”

“God, your job is so boring,” Michael says, propping his chin on his fist, elbow resting on the table. “Tell me more.”

“Not if you’re gonna be an arse about it,” Calum huffs. “I actually like it, you know.”

“No, no,” Michael says quickly. “I meant, like, your job would be so boring if anyone but you was telling me about it.” Calum raises an eyebrow. “Seriously. If you like it, I want to hear about it.”

“It really is boring,” Calum says. Just because it’s boring doesn’t mean he doesn’t like it, but Calum’s self-aware enough to recognize that what he does is generally considered a boring job. He just doesn’t really mind. He’s not a man of many needs, and law is a steady, reliable, productive career. It’s not like it’s Calum’s whole life, but it does just fine as a source of income.

“I didn’t mean to shut you down,” Michael says. “I want to hear about your job and your life and stuff. Sorry, I really do.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Calum says uncomfortably. “Don’t worry about it.”

Michael bites his lip. Calum pretends not to watch. “Alright,” he says finally. “But seriously, I like hearing about the normal things you do. It gets kind of hectic in my life. Yours seems nice and, like, steady.”

Calum smiles, accepting this bizarre compliment for what it is. “Fair enough,” he says. “Well, I’m only in D.C. for about two days, and it’s all work. No time for sightseeing for me, either. Then I’m back.”

Michael hums unhappily. “I’m gone by then. Damn, we’ve really got a tricky situation here, huh?”

“It’s kind of fun,” Calum says, even though he wishes they had more space to get to know each other than just the virtual realm and one hour in an airport every few months. Texting Michael is entertaining enough, and FaceTime at midnight is exciting sometimes, but this, in person, is infinitely better. Calum wishes there was a way to say that without coming on too strong. “Feels like I’m some clandestine affair.”

Michael laughs. Calum’s heart pounds. It’s such a charming, easy sound, and he finds himself wanting to hear it again and again. He _has_ heard it, of course, but now it’s three-dimensional, rich and vibrant and infectious, full of color.

“Maybe you are,” Michael says, still giggling. Calum resists the urge to reach across the table and — and what, he’s not sure, maybe just pat Michael’s cheek or tug at a strand of his hair, some way to capture this moment, this feeling, in the nerve endings on his fingertips. “What time is your flight?”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” Calum teases, and checks his phone for the time. “I probably have about twenty minutes.”

“That’s nothing,” Michael says. “We just sat down.”

“Well, maybe if your plane hadn’t been delayed.”

“Hey, don’t put this on me.”

“I’m just saying, _I_ was here exactly when I said I’d be.”

“You’re a shit,” Michael declares. Calum snickers. “Absolute shit. I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Calum says, and doesn’t bother trying to bat Michael’s fork away when he reaches for some of Calum’s orange chicken. “I’m the light in your dull, depressing days. I’m the only thing that brings you joy. I’m the only thread of normalcy in the mania of your rock star life.”

Michael laughs and shakes his head. He bites into his stolen chicken, and, muffled, says, “You are, you know. I mean, not the _only_ thread of normalcy or whatever, but pretty close.”

Calum feels his cheeks turn pink. “I was joking.”

“Well, you accidentally made a good point,” Michael says. “Since when am I a rock star?”

Calum huffs. In retaliation for Michael’s crime, he reaches over and spears a piece of Michael’s chicken. “Since rock star sounds much more exciting than pop star.”

Michael hums. “Rock star is better,” he allows. “Not particularly accurate, but neither is pop star. Maybe I should just be a pop rock star.”

“Then you just sound like a candy,” Calum says diplomatically. _Pop rock star_ gives Calum a ridiculous mental image, of Michael all in bright pink, jumping around a stage as if his feet are exploding off it. It’s funny, and he laughs at it.

“Tell me more about your job,” Michael says, reaching across the table to pull Calum’s chicken towards him. “This is really good, by the way.”

“You could get your own, you know,” Calum says dryly, but Michael’s is also really good, so he just evens it out by tugging Michael’s food to the middle of the table. “You actually want to hear about my boring job?”

“I already said I do,” Michael says. Despite the promise that it’s not going to be interesting, Michael looks sincere, chin once again propped in his palm, eyes bright. 

Calum figures he’s not really going to get a more captive audience than this, so he starts talking. He tells Michael about the contract he and Luke are currently trying to negotiate, about the inane chain emails he’s started getting from his higher-ups, which he’s _pretty_ sure are a joke, but it’s always hard to tell with Jack and Alex. He talks about his co-workers, though Michael has already heard a good deal about Luke and Ashton from their various phone calls; describes the pranks he and Ashton have been exchanging on each other’s offices, and the way Luke pleads innocent whenever Calum tries to intimidate Ashton’s next move out of him, even though Calum knows for a _fact_ Ashton can’t be doing these all by himself. Michael grins, laughs when it’s appropriate, hums every few minutes as if to assert that he’s still listening. Calum realizes it’s been a long, long time since he’s spoken at such length about his work, and with Michael listening he could probably keep going. 

Unfortunately, time is not on their side. Calum finally pauses after illustrating for Michael how Ashton had slowly taken items off of Calum’s desk and started putting them into Calum’s work bag, one every day — Calum had taken a full three weeks to notice and he’s still not entirely sure where his old stapler went — and checks his screen.

“Oh,” he says, heart sinking when he sees he’s out of time. “Now it’s my turn to run off, I guess.”

“I’ll walk you,” Michael says, which strikes Calum as sort of romantic. Michael stacks their now-empty plastic food containers — somehow he’d managed to polish off both of their meals — and pushes out his chair. “I’m happy to help you brainstorm ways to get back at Ashton, by the way.”

“ _Please,_ ” Calum says, standing as well. “It’s gotta be something really good, because Ashton has the advantage of having Luke at his disposal. Who’s not, you know, tremendously capable, but he _will_ bend to Ashton’s will at any given moment.”

“Well, I’ll think about it and get back to you,” Michael says, grinning. Calum hefts his bag over his shoulder, and Michael falls into step with him as they walk towards Terminal 6, chatting mostly about nothing in particular.

The gate is buzzing with people, and Michael shifts on his feet. “This is probably where I leave you,” he says ruefully. “Wish we had more time.”

It’s a strangely mournful expression for the situation, Calum thinks; it’s not as if either of them is dying, or even as if this is the last time they’ll ever speak, or see each other. Yet part of him understands where Michael is coming from. It feels more final than it is, and he wonders why that could possibly be. 

“There’ll be other times,” he says lightly. “We’ll be in L.A. at the same time eventually, I’m sure.”

Michael rocks back and forth in place, and then, abruptly, he throws his arms around Calum. Calum startles before settling into it. This feels right.

“It felt weird not to hug you,” Michael mutters. “Maybe that’s weird, but I think we’ve gotten close enough to hug, and then I wanted to, at the gate, and I didn’t, and it’s felt weird. Hope that’s okay with you because I’m not gonna stop.”

Calum pats Michael on the back gently, quieting the unrest that’s been clamoring under his skin. “It’s more than okay,” he says. “You’re right. It did feel weird.”

Michael squeezes him tight once, and then pulls away, too soon for Calum to remember to commit everything about it to memory. When he scans Michael’s face, it’s bright and cheerful again. “We’ll talk soon, right?”

“Of course,” Calum says. Need someone to help me come up with a good counter-prank for Ashton, don’t I?”

Michael beams and falls into a backwards walk. “I’ve got you,” he promises. “Text me when you land?”

“I will,” Calum says, wondering when he became the type of person to have someone to text when he lands, and when that someone became Michael.

  
  


  1. **December**



Calum sees Michael first, trudging down the escalator steps to the baggage claim. His steps are weary, listless from what, Calum can only guess. Possibly the regular wear and tear of Michael’s daily life, or travel fatigue, or even jet lag. Or maybe his backpack is just really heavy.

Michael doesn’t notice Calum for a good moment, so Calum takes the opportunity to drink in the sight. It’s been a month since he’s seen Michael in person, and it’s amazing how much a month will do. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe, but something about Michael seems different, too, although Calum’s not necessarily sure if it’s something good or not. 

He is wearing his glasses again, though, which is so unspeakably cute that Calum has to take a moment to recover his breath. 

Michael is on his phone, and a moment later brings it to his ear, but as Calum watches his eyes scan the room and land on Calum, just as Calum’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket.

He pulls it out and answers it. “Hello?”

Across the room, Michael’s face breaks into a grin. “Never mind,” he says on the phone. “Wrong number.” The dial tone buzzes in Calum’s ear. Calum shakes his head wryly as Michael makes his way towards him, walking faster.

This time he doesn’t hesitate before wrapping Calum in a hug. It feels inexplicably like coming home, and Calum sighs quietly, allowing them both a moment to take a deep breath as he buries his face in Michael’s shoulder.

“You smell nice,” Michael murmurs. Calum feels Michael’s voice ripple across the back of his neck and shivers, heart picking up the pace as if it’s been slacking up until now. 

“I showered,” he murmurs back. “The things I do for you.”

Michael breathes a laugh that goes straight to Calum’s heart, crawling through some undetected chink in the armor that Calum usually wears and making itself comfortable at the top of his ribcage.

“It’s really, really good to see your face,” Michael says lowly, which is kind of funny since they’re still hugging. Calum pulls back despite his whole body begging to never let go, studying Michael’s expression. “I mean, it obviously sucks that it’s only an hour like last time, but it’s still nice.”

Calum bites his lip. “About that,” he says, recalling Michael’s expression on their recent FaceTime, the way his face had lit up when Calum had revealed he’d be at the airport and could meet Michael at the baggage claim and maybe get dinner, only to see it fall when he’d learned Calum would only have an hour. Maybe it had been a cruel ruse, but hopefully the payoff will be worth it. “I don’t, uh, have a flight, actually. I’m not going anywhere.”

Michael blanches. “What?”

“I don’t have a flight to catch,” Calum says. “Like, at all. That was a lie. I thought it’d be a nice surprise.” 

“You don’t have a flight?” Michael repeats. The corners of his mouth twist upward, pulling his lips into a smile that seems to overtake his face without his permission. “You’re such a — seriously? We get to actually spend time together? For real?”

“For real,” Calum confirms, giddy from the way Michael’s face is gleaming with delight. “I’m picking you up, actually, if that’s okay with you. And, like, your security.”

“Paul’s officially off-duty, since it’s my week off,” Michael says breathlessly. “Tell me you’re not joking, Calum.”

“I’m not joking.”

Michael runs a hand through his hair, ruffling up an already-unruly mess (and Calum is tempted, so tempted to copy to motion, to just thread his fingers through Michael’s hair to see how it will feel). “Holy shit,” he says. “This is — you’re such a sneaky little shit. Fuck. You’re amazing.”

Calum feels almost embarrassed by the reverence in Michael’s voice, even though a small part of him does get a thrill from it. “It’s mostly self-serving,” he deflects. “I wanted to hang out with you.”

Michael shakes his head, hair falling over his face. “Well, it’s just what the doctor ordered,” he says. “Come carry my bags, then. My knight in shining armor.”

Calum smiles, cheeks flushing, and slings an arm across Michael’s shoulders as they make their way to his claim.

* * *

Michael only has one bag, actually. When Calum inquires after this, raising an eyebrow, Michael just shrugs. “You learn to pack light with a job like mine,” he says.

As they head towards the parking lot, Calum asks how tour has been so far. He knows a little bit, from the calls they’ve had, but those have become fewer and far between. Michael’s always either busy or tired (or often, both), and Calum is extremely crucially engaged in figuring out how best to retaliate against Ashton’s latest prank (having sneakily replaced the photos in several of Calum’s picture frames with unflattering pictures of Calum’s least favorite football player), not to mention the two new contracts he and Luke are working on negotiating. In the commotion, Calum’s open line of communication with Michael has gone silent more often than not. It’s nobody’s fault, but it doesn’t feel great.

Michael sighs. “You know,” he says, as if Calum _would_ know, which he doesn’t. “Tour is tour. It’s the best and worst thing that could ever happen to a person.”

Calum makes a noise of assent. That had basically been the impression he’d gotten.

“I love it, you know?” Michael says wearily, like it’s a cross to bear, to love his job. “I know I’m lucky. I’m just so tired sometimes. I miss home.”

“I get it,” Calum says. Surprisingly, he kind of does. “I mean, I’m obviously not a rock star.” That makes Michael’s lips quirk up. “But I get the…wanting to feel lucky when all you feel is homesick. I think my neighbors and sister have spent more time with my dog than I have, at this point.”

“Exactly,” Michael says. “ Like, I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but I wish I had roots sometimes. Someplace to call home. Or someone.”

“Well, you have your house here,” Calum says as they enter the parking lot. The sudden dimness throws shadows over Michael’s face when Calum glances at him. “And you have me.”

Michael looks sharply over at Calum. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “That’s true.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. The echoing noise of Michael’s suitcase rolling over the uneven asphalt provides a steady backing track for them until they arrive at Calum’s car. He pulls out his keys and unlocks it, then pops the trunk.

Wordlessly, Michael throws his suitcase into the boot, then pulls it closed. Calum walks around to the driver’s side, expecting Michael to take the passenger seat, but turns in confusion when Michael instead follows him.

“It might be difficult if both of us are driving,” he says mildly. Michael just stands there, shifting on his feet.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, okay?” he says nervously, and before Calum can ask what that means, Michael is kissing him.

It’s gentle, like Michael is expecting to be rebuffed, but Calum can’t figure out a way to convey that Michael could have done this the very first day they’d met, at Starbucks, and he’d have been reading it right then, too. That somewhere in his bones he thinks they’re meant to be in every single way, up to and including the churning, fluttering gut sensation of liking someone as much as Calum likes Michael.

So he kisses Michael back, because it’s all he can think to do, and all he’s wanted for months, and it feels just as much like coming home as having Michael in his arms again at the baggage claim. Michael backs him up against the driver side door, clearly emboldened by the fact that Calum hasn’t pushed him away; for a good, long minute they stand there, trading kisses in the parking lot. Calum threads his fingers through Michael’s hair like he’s wanted to do forever, and it feels just as nice as he’d expected it to. 

Slowly, stealing small kisses as if he can’t bear to stop, Michael pulls away, breathing heavily. “So that was okay, right?”

“More than okay,” Calum says. “A long time coming, I’d say.”

“Since you called me indescribably hot, I’d say,” Michael says, biting his lip over a sheepish grin.

“Since you paid for my coffee, I’d say.”

Michael huffs a laugh. “I’m glad that — it would’ve been a pretty awkward, uh, however long you’re kidnapping me if I _had_ been reading it wrong.”

“I can kidnap you for however long you want,” Calum says. “But you will need to get in the car in order for us to actually get anywhere.”

Michael obligingly crosses around to the passenger side, and they both slide in.

“I don’t have anyone expecting me anywhere,” Michael tells Calum, as Calum shifts the car into reverse. “So I’m free for however long you want, to go wherever and do whatever.”

Calum hums. “You can come to my place,” he suggests. “Stay as long as you like.”

“I’d like that,” Michael says, giving Calum a genuine smile that Calum feels right down to his toes. As he pulls out of the parking lot he reaches over to take Michael’s hand, and Michael laces their fingers together and doesn’t let go until they reach Calum’s place.

(They sing along to blink-182 the whole way home, and Calum thinks about what a tragic loss it is, that Michael isn’t in a pop punk band.)

  
  
  


**+1. January**

Calum wakes up with his head on Ashley’s shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable position he’s ever slept in, but definitely not the least, either. Ashley looks bemused.

“Sorry,” Calum yawns. Ashley shakes her head.

“No biggie,” she says. “This was infinitely better than having to share a radius with Things One and Two over there.” She jerks a thumb across the aisle, where Luke is fast asleep still, cuddling into Ashton’s side. “You fell asleep as soon as we took off, so you didn’t have to see them sharing earbuds and stuff. It was honestly repulsive.”

“You’re a real trooper for having witnessed that,” Calum says gravely. He leans away from her and stretches. All of his muscles are achy and sore, and he’s ready to be off this plane and getting home.

It’s easier said than done. It always is. Every minute feels like ten, and by the time Calum is shuffling into the aisle behind Ashley, his work bag weighing a thousand pounds on his shoulder, every single one of his extremities feels like lead. He’s jet-lagged and exhausted and he wants to sleep for a million years. Luke seems to be feeling similarly bedraggled; he slumps against Ashton as they towards the aisle. _At least Luke has Ashton,_ Calum thinks enviously. He misses Michael.

But Michael’s still doing a mini promotional tour and won’t be back in L.A. for another week. When he _is_ in L.A. he stays at Calum’s more often than not, which is always as bitter as it is sweet, because however warm and comfortable the bed is when they’re sharing it, it just feels that much bigger and emptier when Calum’s alone. Calum wouldn’t give it away for anything, but the prospect, right now, of returning to his house and falling asleep alone is so unappealing that Calum almost wants to stay awake in protest.

The way his eyes are practically drooping shut, though, that’s going to have to be more of a theoretical revolt than an actual one.

Ashley chuckles at Calum. She pinches his cheek, and Calum can’t be bothered to swat her hand away. “Not too far now, kid.”

“You’re one year older than me,” Calum grumbles. “ _One._ ”

“Practically a lifetime, if you think about it,” Ashley says. “In dog years, I’m seven years older than you.”

“I’m going to tell Luke and Ashton to have sex on your desk.”

Ashley arches an eyebrow. “You think they haven’t already on yours?”

Calum is ninety-nine percent sure that between Luke and Ashton, at least one of them would have the presence of mind and common decency _not_ to bang on Calum’s desk.

But.

“Fuck you,” Calum says, and resolves to install a lock on his office door, just in case. 

(They wouldn’t. They _wouldn’t._ At _work?_ No. They wouldn’t.

Would they?)

Ashley laughs as they head towards the front of the plane.

The pilot and stewardesses wave cheerfully as they leave, and Calum smiles at them, waving politely back and thanking them for the smooth flight. They walk down the jet bridge, Calum tugging his flannel tighter around him to defend against the stale cold air filling the space, and then they’re out, finally, and Calum takes a deep breath. It just smells like an airport, but that’s minimally nicer than an aeroplane, anyway.

“Dibs not driving,” he hears over his shoulder, and turns to see Luke, still blearily rubbing his eyes. 

“You wouldn’t drive anyway,” Calum says, rolling his eyes. “It’s Ashton’s car.”

Luke scowls. “Tell him that.”

“I don’t think I should have to be the driver,” Ashton says crossly, “just because it’s my car. Just because you guys are all freeloaders.”

“Hey, that’s your boyfriend you’re talking about,” Calum says. 

“Yeah, be nice to Calum,” Luke pouts. Calum cracks a smile despite himself. 

“Hey, Ashley,” Ashton says. “You feel like driving?”

“In L.A. traffic?” Ashley says, and scoffs. “Dream on, Irwin. Cute of you to ask.”

Ashton shrugs. “Worth a shot,” he says, as if they don’t have basically this exact conversation for almost every flight the four of them take together. 

“Cal?”

Calum’s heart stops mid-pulse, and he whirls around to see a familiar pair of green eyes beneath an equally familiar baseball cap, and a smile so warm Calum could cry.

“You’re here,” he breathes, and that’s all he gets out before he’s got Michael in a tight hug. All the tiredness seems to temporarily drain from his body, renewed by Michael’s presence, even though Michael’s supposed to be on tour — Calum checked the dates Michael sent, and everything — 

Michael’s a liar. That much is clear now. Calum’s never felt happier about being lied to.

“Well, aren’t you happy to see me,” Michael says smoothly. Calum breaks away and positively beams.

“Understatement, but yeah,” he says. Then, belatedly: “Oh, uh, maybe this is a weird time for this, but — Luke, Ashton, Ashley, this is my boyfriend Michael. Mike, my co-workers. You’ve all heard of each other, I think.”

“Are you responsible for Calum changing my email sign-off to _His Majesty, Sir Ashton Irwin of Los Anglia?_ ” Ashton asks, deadpan. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael replies. “That’s fucking hilarious, though. Kudos to whoever came up with that.” He grins. Calum could literally melt into his arms right now. In fact, it’s looking more and more tempting.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Calum tells him. “Now _you_ can drive me, and I won’t have to listen to these two bickering nonstop about it.”

Michael laughs at that. “I’d seriously love nothing more.”

“Off to baggage claim,” Ashley announces, grabbing Luke, who grabs Ashton, and the three of them take off in a stumbling march. Calum takes Michael’s hand — it’s a little _too_ bait, to kiss out here, where really, anyone could be watching, and Michael’s just a little too high-profile for that to be anything but bad for him. It’s fine for now. Calum’s not bothered by it. Holding Michael’s hand is nice; just the knowledge that he’s here, that he’s come to rescue Calum, that he’s home a week early, is good enough.

Michael lifts up their conjoined hands and loops his own arm around Calum’s neck. “You seem tired,” he says. Calum yawns as if to emphasize the point.

“Great observation,” he sniffs. “I am incredibly jet-lagged and have not slept a lot in the last few days, so that might have something to do with it.”

“Sounds like you need a long nap,” Michael says wisely. Calum can think of absolutely nothing better. “Well, we can get your shit from baggage claim and you can sleep on the way back to yours.”

“I thought you were still doing promo for another week,” Calum says. “Did you lie to me?”

“Yes and no,” Michael says. “Early on, there were problems with one of the venues, so we had to move some shows around, and the finalized schedule put the final date yesterday. But the screenshot I sent you is from before that happened. So it’s more like you just never asked for updated dates.”

“I’m gonna have to start doing more thorough research,” Calum says, although he’s glad he didn’t know. This was exactly the kind of surprise he needed, and his heart feels full. Sleepy, but content. Michael squeezes his hand once, and Calum squeezes back.

They find Calum’s bag quickly. Luke, Ashton, and Ashley take off with scattered farewells and a threat from Ashton to find some way to prank Michael, and Michael good-naturedly takes Calum’s suitcase from him and drags it out to Michael’s car.

This time it’s Calum who crowds him up against the door. “Very frustrating that I can’t kiss you at the gate,” he murmurs, and Michael hums in agreement before Calum bridges the gap, savoring the feeling the way he always does; everything from Michael’s thumb hooked in Calum’s belt loop to his other hand skimming across Calum’s shoulder before settling at the base of his neck, the way Michael always tastes inexplicably like _Michael_ and how wonderfully familiar that is, the slow, almost lazy way he opens his mouth to Calum’s.

Calum’s never kissed anyone the way he kisses Michael, and he can’t imagine ever, ever wanting to. But then again, no one’s ever kissed Calum the way Michael kisses him.

“Missed you,” Michael breathes when they break. “I wish you could come on tour. I miss you every single day I’m there.”

“Welcome to my world,” Calum says. “Except I don’t have nearly as cool of a job to make up for it.”

Michael chuckles. “Just quit your job and become a groupie. I bet we could negotiate a deal for you. Hey, _you_ could negotiate a deal for you!”

“That’s not exactly what I do,” Calum says, “but okay.” 

It’s something to think about, if Calum intends for this relationship to go much further, but that’s a problem for another day. Another day, he’ll sit down with Michael and they’ll figure out exactly how much work Calum can miss to come join Michael for some of tour, and how strategically Michael can plan his tour dates to have a few long breaks, instead of several short ones. Another day, they’ll decide there’s no point in having two houses when they spend so much time apart as it is already; Calum will move in with Michael, and Luke will be forever jealous of Michael’s gaming system. Another day, a distant one, Michael will take a long break from touring, focus on writing and recording from home, and he’ll ask Calum _do you love me?_ and Calum will say _I do_ , because he does, of course, and always will, and sometime soon after that, Calum will say _I do_ again, except this time Luke and Ashton will cry, and so will Michael, and honestly, so will Calum. And so will Mali-Koa.

But right now they’re standing in the parking lot of Los Angeles International Airport, and Calum doesn’t have the foresight to do anything but smile easily, kiss Michael one more time, and say, “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday once again to my dear and wonderful sam. and as for the REST of you you can find me on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) where i am more than happy to chat about whatever crosses your mind thanks everyone sending love bye now


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